


Ceremony

by kelly_chambliss



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelly_chambliss/pseuds/kelly_chambliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kathryn Janeway gets promoted.</p><p>Written in 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Commanding Officer

**Author's Note:**

> Back in 1999, I fell in love with the character of Captain Kathryn Janeway of Star Trek: Voyager. On the day I did a web search of her name, I changed my life forever, because one of the hits I got was for something called "The JetC Index." It was fanfic, all sorts of fanfic, glorious fanfic, terrible fanfic, explicit fanfic. I was hooked. I read voraciously for some weeks and then finally decided to try my hand at writing a story of my own.
> 
> I ended up writing probably a couple dozen VOY fics between 1999 and 2002 or so, with another few written a bit later. All are Janeway-centric. The stories are scattered in various places, so I thought I might as well gather them all here at A03.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Starfleet Command

requests the pleasure of your company at a ceremony

in honor of

Captain Kathryn Janeway  
USS Voyager

on the occasion of her promotion to

Admiral

The twenty-second of June, 2378  
StarDate 54994  
1100 Hours

Starfleet Headquarters  
San Francisco  
Earth

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Part One: The Commanding Officer

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He had to attend the ceremony.

He had no choice -- after all, when Starfleet had finally managed to make contact with Voyager in the Delta Quadrant, he'd been one of the first people to speak to the crew. And to the captain.

So of course he was expected to attend. People even assumed he wanted to. "You must be so proud, Admiral Paris," they kept saying. "Janeway was your protegee, wasn't she?"

He suspected that if left to herself, Kathryn wouldn't have wanted a full-dress -- and full-media -- promotion ceremony. But she had no choice, either.

The story of Voyager's journey had created a stir unlike anything since the end of the Dominion War. People wanted Voyager's captain and crew on public display, as if they had to be seen before anyone could believe that their tale of hope and heroism was true. Owen was reminded of an old Earth myth, about a man who needed to touch the wounds of his leader before he could believe in him.

So on the appointed day Paris sat, sweating in his dress uniform, among dozens of officers on a platform that dominated the campus of Starfleet Headquarters. Despite the chair beneath his legs and the floor beneath his feet, Owen felt adrift. His eyes were on the carefully-tended flowerbeds dotting the grounds, but his mind saw only Kathryn in her admiral's uniform, her body trim in black and grey, her new rank designated by the bands of dark red circling the wrists of her tunic.

Of course, today was not the first time he had seen her since Voyager's return. After the initial debriefings, the crew and their families had been reunited at a private reception. Owen had shaken hands, slapped backs, played the admiral to perfection. When he had finished embracing the stranger who was his son, he had turned away quickly, only to find himself face to face with Kathryn Janeway.

He had embraced her, too, mostly to avoid having to look into her eyes. Her cheek had been cool against his, her hair soft. "It's good to see you, sir," she said, smiling at him. Owen had moved on quickly, rocked by a surge of queasiness.

Today, sitting on the presentation platform, he felt the nausea return. There were speeches and cheers and more speeches, but Owen heard none of them, not until a single sentence pushed into his mind: "From the time she was an ensign, captured by Cardassians," the speaker was saying, "Captain Kathryn Janeway has shown a courage. . . "

Owen's stomach lurched.

Captured by Cardassians.

That had been twenty years ago. More.

Then, like now, he had watched Kathryn. . .

//// _. . .watched her as he sat on the edge of a narrow bunk in the dim Cardassian prison cell. He kept still, trying not to disturb her now that she had finally fallen asleep, worn out by the long, tense hours they had spent in the prison, at first separated, then locked together in the dank room, just waiting. She lay there, her face serene, looking like the child she had been not so long ago, in the days when he would glimpse her pale, leggy form disappearing around the corner from her father's study. Owen smiled slightly at the memory -- how anxious she had been not to be caught eavesdropping on Starfleet business. Kathryn had been Fleet-obsessed even then._

_He wanted her to sleep as long as she could; the Cardassians would come for them soon enough. This delay was part of the plan, standard psychological procedure for breaking captives. It would _all_ be standard procedure, the whole looming, inevitable process. He thought it might be easier to take, somehow, if the cruelty were personal or meaningful instead of what it was -- just another indifferent move in the endless game of interplanetary politics._

_He glanced at Kathryn again, and nausea rose in a wave. The Cardassians would. . . He should have talked to her, prepared her. . . He was her damned commanding officer; he should be protecting her. . .Christ, she was just a kid. . ._

_But she wasn't. When Admiral Paris had met Cadet Janeway at the Academy, she had been a child no longer. At first her woman's body unsettled him, but he had soon seen beyond it to her fine mind, had become her mentor and even her surrogate father. . .that's how he thought of her: as a daughter. . ._

_He stood abruptly, moved away from the bunk. He was pacing, trying to quiet his churning stomach, when he heard the first scrape of the opening door._

_There were three of them: a burly soldier who pushed Owen to his knees, twisting his arms behind his back. A second soldier, not much older than Kathryn, who shoved her against the wall, held his phaser to her head. . ._

_And Gul Camet, the Cardassian leader who had spoken genially to Owen when he and Kathryn had first been captured._

_"Admiral Paris," said the gul now, in the same charming tone. "Since I saw you last, I had an interesting conversation with your young ensign. I showed her one of the many inventive little devices that we use to induce our prisoners to. . .chat with us. But Ensign Janeway did not seem impressed. She said. . .now, I want to be sure I quote you accurately, my dear. . .she said that my approach to interrogation was 'a ridiculous method of getting information.' Is that correct, Ensign?"_

_Kathryn was silent._

_"Ensign?" repeated the gul sharply. Kathryn's guard jammed his phaser into her neck._

_"Yes."_

_"Ah." Camet turned back to Owen. "Since she disdains our modern technology, I wonder, Admiral, if Ensign Janeway might approve of more old-fashioned methods?"_

_He nodded to the soldier who held Owen's arms._

_The first blow caught Paris behind the ear, sending him sprawling. The next was a kick to the stomach, the third a thrust with the butt of a phaser rifle. After that, he ceased to count._

_"Enough," said Camet at last._

_Owen lay still, for the moment feeling nothing but the blood cooling on his skin. Gradually, he became aware of pain and random images -- the soldier's boots. A dark stain on the wall. Kathryn's wide eyes. The gul's smile._

_"What did you think, Ensign?" Camet inquired politely. "Personally, I find this method a bit crude, don't you? Perhaps we should try a second experiment. . ."_

_"No!"_

_"Oh, don't worry," the gul chuckled. "We'll leave your commander alone this time."_

_He drew a fingertip along her cheek._

_She jerked her head back, but refused to look away from him. "I don't know anything."_

_Again, Gul Camet smiled his urbane smile. "No," he said. "I don't suppose you do."_

_He continued to smile as he led her from the room._

_Owen had closed his eyes then, opening them only much later, after he had long been alone._ ////

That had been twenty years ago. More.

Admiral Paris thought of that long-ago day as he waited for Kathryn Janeway's promotion ceremony to end, trying to ignore his queasiness, trying not to stare at her, at the elegant hands, at the smooth, pale skin, so clear against the dark hues of her new uniform.

What had happened to her after Camet had taken her away, Owen never knew. She had once tried to raise the subject, but he had pretended not to understand.

Today, narrowing his eyes against the sun and the sight of Kathryn, he damned her. For surviving, for returning. For reminding him. For no longer letting him pretend he hadn't failed her. Hadn't wanted her.

And he damned himself.

Applause and cheers told him that the program had finally concluded. Janeway was standing now, and Owen watched as she turned to greet friends and colleagues. He watched as she rested her hand on her Asian lieutenant's arm, lifted an amused eyebrow at her old friend Tuvok, spoke softly to the Borg drone.

Pushing through the crowd, Admiral Paris hurried down the steps of the platform and into the grounds, unmindful of paths or flowerbeds, heedless of the pale blooms crushed beneath his feet.


	2. The First Officer

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Part Two: The First Officer

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He did not attend the ceremony.

He sent his regrets almost as soon as he received the invitation. Seven seemed angry that he wasn't going, but Chakotay hadn't tried to explain. How could he tell her, when she slept in his bed every night, that he preferred to ignore everything connected with Voyager? The last thing he wanted was to face that crew again, and the press, and the Fleet brass, and all those people whose relatives and lovers hadn't made it back.

He was sure that Seven thought he was staying away because of Kathryn. He could not disabuse her of the notion that he yearned for Kathryn or was angry with her or felt used by her. None of that was true, but Seven didn't seem to believe him. So he had simply stopped discussing it.

It was unfair of him, he supposed. He didn't mean to shut her out, it was just. . .

They never should have gotten together in the first place. He realized that now. But on Voyager, after Seven had lost some of her Borg defensiveness, he had found her appealing. That mixture of vulnerability and confidence -- it intrigued him. And when she had appeared drawn to him, when it seemed as if he had managed to reach her in ways that the captain, for all her efforts, could not. . .well, he had thought they could make things work.

In many respects, they had. He liked Seven; she was interesting and determined and unafraid. But still, their relationship had been a mistake. Seven didn't need him.

And _he _didn't need to sit through a long-winded Starfleet ritual that would serve only to remind him of the seven years they'd all lost, so far from home. Kathryn would understand. He planned to offer her his congratulations privately, where they wouldn't have a thousand eyes upon them, and he could leave quickly.__

__Accordingly, one morning not long before the formal promotion ceremony, he headed toward her office at Starfleet Headquarters. Walking along the neat paths, he realized how much he disliked being there. Being in Starfleet in the far-off DQ was one thing; being "Fleet" on Earth was something else again. He was too visible, too noticed. And even his living with Seven had not been enough to quell the snickering talk about "Voyager's Queen and Her Commander Consort," as one tabloid had dubbed him and Kathryn._ _

__His eyes on the ground, Chakotay didn't notice the straight-shouldered woman coming toward him until he was almost abreast of her._ _

__It was Kathryn._ _

__Her eyes lit when she saw him; her mouth curved in the beginning of the smile he knew so well._ _

__And Chakotay found himself snapping to attention, his hand striking his head in rigid salute, his face immobile, his volition gone._ _

__"Captain," he heard himself say._ _

__Though he focused on a point behind her, he still saw the smile die, saw her body stiffen as his had done. Her expression became almost instantly unreadable, yet for one excruciating moment, Chakotay had the feeling she was about to laugh._ _

__But Janeway was Starfleet; she knew all about control._ _

__She looked at him for a measured second, and then, with perfect form, returned his salute._ _

__"Commander," she said, inclining her head briefly._ _

__Then she continued down the path._ _

__Chakotay slowly lowered his arm. But he stood there, at attention, long after she had disappeared._ _

__~ ~ ~ ~ ~_ _

__Later that day, he finally found his way to her office. He'd almost decided not to go; he felt foolish as hell. But he'd have to see her sooner or later, so better to do it now, before it began to look as if he were avoiding her. He didn't want any more misunderstandings._ _

__Her assistant showed him in, and Kathryn rose to greet him with a smile, her manner easy; she'd apparently decided to ignore their earlier encounter. But Chakotay wanted to explain._ _

__"About this morning, Kathryn," he said. "I don't know what came over me. It's just. . .out there in the open like that. . .after all this gossip. . ."_ _

__She grimaced sympathetically. "I know. Silly, isn't it? Don't give it another thought, Chakotay."_ _

__And then she was through with the whole topic. She offered him tea, inquired after Seven and his current work, accepted his congratulations on her promotion, assured him that she perfectly understood his reluctance to attend the formalities._ _

__She even embraced him as he left. In that moment, as his arms tightened around her, he was back on Voyager, and Kathryn was both his prison and his liberation._ _

__~ ~ ~ ~ ~_ _

__On the day of the ceremony, Seven got ready and departed with her usual lack of fuss. Chakotay spent the morning at a nearby holodeck recreation center, where he chose the most demanding climbing program available. When he emerged a few hours later, he saw that one of the news screens at the center's café was set on the Starfleet feed. It was replaying the promotion gala. Of course._ _

__Despite himself, Chakotay paused to watch. The audience seemed overflowing with Voyager crew members. Harry, his lieutenant's pips shining. Tom and B'Elanna. Sam Wildman. Damn, it looked as if every living person who had ever served with Janeway was there. Tuvok had evidently delayed his return to Vulcan for the occasion, for there he sat, on the platform next to Kathryn herself._ _

__They all seemed remote, as if they were people he knew only from afar. Kathryn especially. She looked stern in Starfleet grey-and-black, her hair swept back severely. Even on the small vidscreen, he recognized her expression, the one that told him she had retreated deep inside herself, to the places he had never been able to reach._ _

__Watching her, he knew he was right to have stayed away. She didn't need him._ _


	3. The Drone

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Part Three: The Drone

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I attended the ceremony.

It never occurred to me not to go, although, when I accepted the invitation, Chakotay tried to dissuade me. "You'll be bored, Seven," he said. "And you'll be swamped by the press."

"I do not expect to enjoy myself," I replied. I forbore to point out that enjoyment was not the point of such rituals. He already knew that, and in any event, his comment was not motivated by a concern for my entertainment. He was worried that I would ask him to accompany me.

"I am happy to go alone," I told him. "And I will have no trouble with the press."

It was true. I had found that when accosted by reporters, I had only to stare at them and keep my face blank, so that they could read in it whatever they pleased. Since they ended up leaving me alone, I assume they were pleased to feel slightly afraid of me.

I did not mind.

"Now you're angry," Chakotay said.

"Not at all. I feel no distress. It is my choice to attend, yours to remain here. Neither of us is obligated to follow the other's path."

I said nothing further, for to continue the conversation would be to risk another emotional discussion about Captain Janeway. Chakotay persists in thinking that I am made uncomfortable by his complicated relationship with her, that I judge or blame him in some way. I do not, but he does not believe me. I saw no point in addressing the subject again.

Long ago, before Voyager's return to the AQ, I asked the Captain about her feelings for Chakotay. The crew always gossiped about the two of them, and I wished to know the truth.

I thought she might resent my presumption, so I toyed with the idea of hiding my question behind my shield of Borg ignorance. I considered going to her quarters late at night, inventing some existentialist dilemma about sex and relationships. 

But I didn't. It seemed manipulative, and in any case, I no longer wanted her to instruct me. I wanted her to talk with me.

So I waited until we reached a supply planet that offered the chance for shore leave.

I took mine alone. It surprised some people -- the doctor, for instance -- that I, a former Borg, could crave solitude. But the constant busy companionship aboard Voyager was very different from the smooth unity of the Collective. I had come to find privacy soothing.

Even though I went to the planet's surface on my own, I cannot claim to have come upon the Captain by accident. In fact, I identified her location before I left the ship. I am not certain where I thought she would go for relaxation, but I did not expect that it would be a beachfront café in a resort area. Nonetheless, there I found her, sitting at a table by herself, slightly apart from the crowds.

She was out of uniform, wearing a light, flowing dress that left her shoulders and legs bare. Unlike the others in the café, she was not eating; her table held only a bottle and a small glass.

I watched her for a few minutes, still uncertain whether I would interrupt her or simply walk on the beach by myself. In the end, she made the decision for me. Although I believed I had kept out of her sight, I was mistaken; she noticed me and motioned me to join her.

She seemed neither surprised to see me nor annoyed at being disturbed. When the server brought another glass, she poured me a drink. It was alcoholic, and I half-expected her to say something educational about its potential effects, but she did not.

"What brings you here, Seven?" she asked, after sipping her own drink. "I wouldn't have thought this" -- a wave of her hand indicated the beach and the noisy crowds -- "would have much appeal for you."

"Nor for you, Captain."

She shrugged and smiled, allowing me to evade her question. We sat in silence for a time, then talked idly of random topics. Somehow the conversation found its way to the Alpha Quadrant.

I remember that I said, "You will no doubt be promoted upon our return," and she did not disagree.

But neither did she seem pleased.

"Is that not what you want?" I asked her.

"What I want," she said, her voice tight, "is to get that damned ship home and then be left the hell alone."

I rose, regretting that I had intruded upon her, but she grabbed my arm and pulled me back, her fingers digging into my flesh. "I don't mean you, Seven."

"But I. . . "

"Sit down!. . .please."

I sat. And she drank, her gaze fixed on the water, her body tense. Not until the bottle was empty and she had called for another did she lean back in her chair and look at me.

"Tell me why you're here," she said.

I saw no reason not to be equally direct. "I wanted to talk with you. Not on the ship. Not as my mentor or captain."

"As what, then? A friend?" Her tone was mocking, and I think I would have walked away, except that her disdain did not appear to be directed at me.

"Do you have friends, Captain?"

I was not being rude; I wanted to know.

"No." She was staring at the ocean again.

"What about Commander Chakotay?" It was not the way I had planned to introduce his name, but then, nothing about this meeting was as I had envisioned it.

"Chakotay. . ." She was no longer irritated, merely pensive, twisting her glass in her hands. When she finally turned to me, it was with an expression I hadn't seen before.

"I considered Chakotay a friend, once. Now I don't know quite what he is."

"Your first officer?"

It was a joke of sorts, and she knew it. Her response was rueful.

"Oh, yes, he is always that." She eyed me speculatively. "What are you really asking, Seven?"

"You and the commander. . ." I began. And stopped. How could I have thought I would be able to invade her privacy in this way? I had no idea what to say next. But the captain rescued me as usual.

"Don't tell me the crew has been gossiping again."

I nodded, and she surprised me by grinning. "Chakotay and I are supposedly locked in a deathless romance?"

"Not deathless," I corrected. "Most people think he's thrown you over."

The captain flung back her head and laughed for quite a while.

"My god," she said, when she could speak. "Do me a favor, Seven. The next time someone brings this up, tell them they're right. Tell them you have it on good authority that Chakotay threw over the captain because she's a bad lay."

Perhaps she meant only to startle me. But I felt. . .included, somehow, as if I were part of her life in a way I had not yet been. I wanted to show her that I understood. Perhaps I also hoped she would understand *me* and what I was trying to say.

"Is she?" I asked.

She just smiled at me and touched my hand. "Let's have dinner," she said.

After our return to the ship, we never referred to this conversation. I don't know if she thought of it when she learned I had become involved with Chakotay, but if she did, she no doubt assumed that my curiosity had been an indication of my interest in the commander. It probably did not occur to her that my real interests lay. . .elsewhere.

I think it may have occurred to Admiral Paris. I saw him staring at us after the promotion ceremony, looking unhappy, as the Captain. . .or, I should say, the Admiral, spoke to me. But he hurried away, and I do not believe Admiral Janeway noticed him.

I turned when I felt her hand on my shoulder.

She thanked me for coming.


	4. The Captain

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Part Four: The Captain

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He was told to attend the ceremony.

To be sure, the command had come in the form of a request: "Since you're already on Earth, Captain Picard, we hope you'll be available for Captain Janeway's promotion," Admiral Hayes said after a meeting at Starfleet Headquarters. "These events help build morale, especially after a war. It would be good to have the Fleet's flagship represented."

Picard had acquiesced with a nod. In truth, he didn't mind going. Not that he looked forward to the speeches or to what promised to be a massive assembly of upper-echelon egos. It was his curiosity about the guest of honor that drew him.

He had not known of Kathryn Janeway before her disastrous trip to the Badlands, but that was not surprising. Starfleet was large; many captains were strangers to each other. He knew that Will Riker had met Janeway back in their cadet days, but Riker had been unforthcoming about her. "Intense" was all Will had said by way of description. Picard could well believe it.

He fancied he could feel some of that intensity as he sat watching her from his place on the dais. Her gaze was more piercing in reality than in vids or holographs, the planes of her face more defined. The normally unflattering uniform emphasized the compact efficiency of her movements, although Picard could not rid himself of the notion that the maroon admiral's bands around her sleeves looked more like manacles than decoration. He smiled slightly -- clearly his own unwillingness to be promoted was coloring his imagination.

Had Janeway wanted her promotion? he wondered. Or had she been left little choice? A war-weary Federation needed its heroes, and thus her career had ceased to be her own even before Voyager swooped triumphantly over San Francisco Bay. Still, if Picard's sources were to be trusted, Starfleet was taking something of a chance with Janeway. There were rumors -- hushed, barely-whispered rumors -- that on her own, in the vastness of the Delta Quadrant, she had gone rogue, torturing prisoners, sleeping with alien murderers, forging unholy alliances with demagogues and tyrants and even the Borg.

Looking at Janeway now, as she sat quiet and still, her attention focused on the current speaker, Picard refused to judge her. No one, not even her own crew, could know what she'd faced out there. It must have been. . .

~~~ hell ~~~

The word sounded in his brain, but he hadn't thought it. The voice was not his own, but hers. . .

And with his mind, he answered her. . .

~~~ Kathryn ~~~

Picard saw Janeway's head jerk up sharply, her eyes wide as she glanced about, trying to discover whose mind had spoken to hers.

But the link was already broken, Picard could feel it. He drew a long breath, willing his heartbeat to return to normal. He had not had what he called a "Locutus moment" for a long time. These remnants of his Borg assimilation were harmless, or so the doctors insisted, but they always shook the hell out of him.

Janeway was shaken, too, he thought, watching her briefly press her fingertips to her forehead. The gesture must have concerned her former security officer, for the Vulcan turned to her inquiringly. She reassured him with a slight smile, but the thin hands now clenched in her lap told Picard that she hated these momentary losses of self as much as he did.

It eased him to look away from her, to let his eyes take in the clear sky, the flower-decked grounds, some of the faces on the platform: an apparently dyspeptic Owen Paris, a Klingon ambassador, Voyager's coolly beautiful former Borg.

As the ceremony drew to a close, he joined in the ovation, and the crush of people soon obscured Kathryn Janeway even further from his sight.

But still he felt her, gently, in his mind, her touch almost more intimate than he could bear.


	5. The Admiral

Part Five: The Admiral

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She attended the ceremony as she had attended most things since her return from the Delta Quadrant: with as little of her mind as necessary. The part of her that automatically furnished proper responses and expected behaviors -- that part she was content to relinquish to Starfleet. But the rest she kept for herself.

It hadn't taken many days of the bureaucracy and politics of post-war Starfleet to convince Kathryn Janeway that, whatever position she might assume in the Fleet hierarchy, she would have to live her real life somewhere else, outside the confines of the organization that had once given meaning to her existence.

She had expected to be grieved at the loss of that meaning, but to her surprise, she'd at first felt only relief -- and then, as she realized how fully she'd made her escape, an overwhelming sense of freedom.

Today, sitting at her promotion ceremony in what she trusted was a suitably attentive pose, Kathryn tasted the tang of liberation once again. It wasn't that she despised Starfleet, or wished herself out of it. She simply no longer accorded it power over her, not in any way that mattered.

Odd, she thought, as she surveyed the crowd: instead of making her feel isolated and indifferent, her new-found distance from the organization gave her greater interest in the people who belonged to it.

Owen Paris, now. There he sat, his face bleak, trying not to look at her. He had been trying not to look at her ever since they had been rescued from the Cardassians, all those years ago. She wondered what he would do if he knew that she had long recognized the guilt and lust he tried so desperately to hide. He'd probably look away from her all the more.

And Chakotay. He just tried to avoid her altogether. She had thought about telling him that he didn't need to, but then she'd realized that perhaps he did. The day he'd saluted her on the path -- that was when it occurred to her that Chakotay needed his distance just as she needed hers. In the old days, she would simply have rolled her eyes and pulled his arm down, and afterward, they would have laughed together at the absurdity of it.

But the old days had been a long time ago.

She could hardly remember what they had been like, those days before Scorpion and Kashyk and Ransom. Before Seven.

Seven. Kathryn looked obliquely down the row to where Seven sat, doomed always to be known as "the former Borg," her hands clasped, the sun glinting off her metal implant. Janeway was glad she hadn't leaned forward quite far enough to see that lovely face.

Sometimes she let herself remember the brief, glorious fantasies she'd had on Voyager, when she had imagined the two of them having a life together. . .

Ah, Seven, she thought now, what I wanted us be to each other. . .In my crazier moments, I believe you wanted it, too. I think you even tried to tell me, that time we shared shore leave. But I couldn't let you, not then. I told myself it was because the whole thing would have been insanely inappropriate, and it would have, but the truth was, I didn't want to risk losing you. . .I don't think I could have borne that kind of hell. . .and that's what it would have been. . .hell. . .

~~~ Kathryn ~~~

The word was a caress in her mind, and for a mad instant, she thought it was Seven, calling her at last. . .

A quick glance at the impassive serenity of Seven's expression mocked this wild surmise. Janeway dropped her head to her hands and let the regret sweep through her, but only for a moment. Regret was something else to be left behind.

The voice in her head spoke no more. Since she'd briefly been Borg, she sometimes experienced these random contacts; they meant little. Kathryn smiled at Tuvok, who was watching her with Vulcan unease. _It's all right, my friend,_ she thought, hoping he was listening.

It's all right.

The End


End file.
